Alfred F Jones
by AwesomeMango
Summary: Chiara (Fem!Romano) always could see ghost. Ever since she was a little girl, all she wished was some peace. So, when she moved into America and ended up in a promising school, she thought that she can finally gain her long awaited peace. But that changes when she meets a talkative blonde ghost. / A short story made out of complete boredom, haha.
1. Chapter 1

It was a complete shock when I saw the head of a blonde boy peering over the stall door, staring down at me with a scrutinizing gaze. At first, I could only stare, but I managed to recover. Reaching for the roll of toilet paper, I snatched it and threw it at him with all my might. The roll went through his head.

I screamed. "Oh fuck no!" I get to my feet and pull up my shorts Then I slam open the door. As I expected, he was floating. "Give me a break. I thought this school was safe."

"You can see me?" The doubt in his voice was there, but it was just a sliver. When I raised a questioning brow, he whoops. "Oh, _awesome_! Do you know how _long _I've been wanting for someone to notice me? It's been decades – _decades _since someone talked to me!" He floated down, meeting my gaze. His eyes, hidden behind a pair of glasses, were bright. "And the one who noticed me is a babe. Best. Day. Ever."

I bring out my bottle of holy water and twist the cap off. "Hey, what's that?" he inquired curiously. Without a second thought, I pour the sacred water onto his head. He lets out a screech and disappears like smoke.

"And never come back," I murmured.

. . .

"Psst, babe, how do you solve that?"

I let out a small gasp, turning my head sharply to the culprit. It was him. He was bent down over my notebook, observing the problems written on the lines. I scowl and cover my page. "What are you doing here? I thought I got rid of you. Get out!"

He raised his eyebrows before pointing a thumb at my teacher, who was glaring daggers at me. "Is there anything that you need to say, Ms. Vargas?"

Color rises to my face. "No, Mrs. Smith. I'm sorry for interrupting the class." My gaze floats over to the blonde ghosts, who smiles innocently. "I just saw something really annoying."

"Well, whatever it is, get over it." Mrs. Smith adjusts her falling glasses. "You're in class now and it is a priority you must behave."

I nodded. I'm going to get this ghost for embarrassing me. I'll get my revenge.

But before I could shoot my signature death glare, he was already gone.

. . .

Students walked down the flight of stairs in a swarm, dozens of different pitched voices, steps, and laughs filling the air. I hate it after school; it's so noisy with the overly excited students. You get to go home, what's the big deal?

"Be careful, you might trip!" Damn it, I know this voice. It's that blonde ghost. Well, whatever. I'm not going to pay attention to him anymore. That should make him feel miserable.

He chatters on and on while I walk, something about being heroic, and I find it hard not to yell at him. He's different from most of the ghosts I've met from the past years. They usually don't converse much – they just follow you around or ask for favors ("Please, I need to tell him that I still love him!"; "Give him the money I hid behind the mirror."; "I need to apologize to my mom."; blah blah blah). But this guy – _this idiot _just keeps talking and talking. If he wasn't dead, I would have kicked him in the gut.

I settle myself onto a bench, which has the school's name carved into it, and place my bag down at the side. Then I bring out my phone, which has a pair of dangling hot pink earphones, and shove the earphones into my ears. I could hear Alfred protest, but I just blast _Haven't Had Enough _by Marianas Trench. As I did so, I couldn't help but smirk.

Suddenly, they cords are pulled by some invisible force, and they're sent flying into the air. Before I could comprehend what happened, the blonde ghost's pouty face comes into view. "I'm _talking _to _you_, you know."

I snarl. I must look insane right now to the rest of the other people, snarling at the air, but I don't care. "Do you know how much those cost? I bought those with my own money!" I brought out my other bottle of holy water and uncap it, splashing the blonde ghost aggressively. He lets out a scream and disappears again.

I hastily grab my bag and my fallen earphones, dialing my mom's number as I walked out of the campus. "Hi, Mom. I'm walking home today. Yeah, I'll be careful. Love you."

. . .

"Hello!" He chirps cheerfully, waving energetically at me. He floated in the air, legs crossed. "Glad you came today!"

"Crap. . ." I reach for my holy water, but then the weird stare from my sister stops me. I don't want her to be confused on why I just splashed the air with a bottle of holy water; that'll raise too much questions.

"What's wrong, Sorella?" my sister, Alice, inquired curiously. Her caramel brown eyes were filled with concern. Damn it, sometimes I regret not telling her of my gift.

I clear my throat. "Nothing. I thought I forgot something, but I remembered putting it in my bag."

"Oh, okay." Alice smiles in relief. "It's just that you look like you've seen a ghost."

_I have, _I thought bitterly. "What? Ghosts don't exist." I brush a loose lock of my hair behind my ear, shooting a small glare at the blonde ghost. "And if they do, they'd be annoying. Like, _really annoying._"

"Hah! I bet I could beat them up, dead or not." Alice chuckles and pats my back. "I'll send them flying!"

I smiled. "Totally." Then I gave the blonde ghost a _You heard that~ _stare. He gulps.

. . .

"Who was that scary girl you were talking to?" the blonde ghost demanded, hands on hips as he steadily floated in the air. "She looks sort of like you. . . Is she your sister?"

I idly stare at the cold pizza in my hand, completely ignoring the ghost. I hate Pizza Hut. They put too much sauce, too much cheese, and _too much meat. _I don't understand. Pizza is supposed to be a small, healthy dish! Not a heart-attack on a piece of bread.

"Dude, can you like, stop staring at that pizza and look at me for a second? I know you can see me so _please _talk to me." The falter in his voice made me look at him; his voice hasn't faltered once since we met. He was crying.

"Hey. . .," I say, feeling the tiniest bit of guilt.

He sniffed. "Forget it. This was a hopeless idea anyways." With that said, he disappeared. And I was left feeling guilty.

I wrap my uneaten pizza back into its tinfoil cocoon and place it into my lunch bag. Then I get up, turn, and make a dash out the cafeteria doors.

The air outside was warm and sticky, the complete opposite of the air-conditioned building. My hair flew behind me like a jumble of curly yarn and the wind hurt my eyes.

I needed to go somewhere private to summon him; it would be inconvenient if someone saw me screaming into the air like some crazed lunatic. But the word _private _doesn't quite go well with this school. It was overcrowded and students were everywhere – under the bridge, the back of the library, classrooms, the fields, _everywhere. _

But then, suddenly, it hit me: the janitor's closet.

I changed directions, heading for the direction of the cramped broom closet.

It was located under a flight of stairs at the A building. Everybody thinks it's haunted since it looks creepy, dark and cramp and all. But so far, I've seen no ghosts in it – trust me, I've checked.

When I reach my destination, I'm greeted by a group of students gathered around the stairs. Like, not the friendly greeting. It was more like a _jump in my way and sneer_ greeting.

"Hey," the one who blocked my greeted. He was a senior, judging from the graduating tag on his collar. His hair was shaved into a thick Mohawk and he had piercings on his ears. "Wanna hang out a bit? We'd love to have a new friend, especially if they're a hot Italian transferee."

I raise an eyebrow. Placing a hand on my hip, I gave him the nastiest look I can muster. He laughs. "Wow, feisty. I like that. Come on, join in a little."

"I'm busy right now," I reply. "So, if you'd excuse me. . ." As I tried to get around him, he grabbed my wrist. His grip was tight, so tight I could see the blood pile up at my hand. I glare at him. "I said _excuse me. _Or do you want it in Italian?"

His small group of friends snickers and his face turns a rose pink. Shoving a stubby finger in front of my face, he growled, "Watch your mo—"

"Watch my what?" I inquired innocently. I raise my eyebrows and smile densely.

He lifts a hand and I know he's going to slap me. I narrow my eyes, challenging him, taking a position of defense. But before his hand made contact with my skin, the janitor's closet door flew open.

I was expecting to see the janitor, confused and disappointed, at the fight that was brew, but instead I saw the blonde ghost. He was inside the room.

"It's you. . .," I murmured.

Though my voice was low, he must have heard it since he smiled. Then, in a blink of an eye, the door closed again.

The lights above started to flicker and the window shutters closed and opened; the door of the janitor closet opened and this time, mops and different tools flew out.

The blonde ghost has become a poltergeist.

_A noisy ghost. _

"Ghost!" one of the seniors screamed, scrambling up the stairs. The others followed his example, sputtering nonsense, before the guy in front of me reluctantly followed. His glare told me he won't forget this.

After a moment or two, the ruckus stopped. The flights flickered once, twice, thrice until becoming stable; the tools floated in the air and set themselves down inside the closet before door closed. The blonde ghost then appeared in front of me, hovering an inch over my head. He was smiling.

I smiled back. "I could have taken care of it, you know."

"I doubt that," was his reply. "After all, the hero must protect the weak."

"I am _so _not weak. Anyways, sit down; I need to tell you something."

He blinked, but slowly floated down a little above the ground. "Go on."

I sat down next to him and took a deep breath. It was always hard. Apologizing. But one must know when they were wrong to become strong. So, a little hesitantly, I quickly said, "Sorry."

"For what?" the blonde ghost asked, staring at me with earnest eyes. "For ignoring me? That's okay. I'm used to it."

"It wasn't right, though. So, I'm really sorry. I won't ignore you from now on." I extended out a hand. "Let's be. . . acquaintances. I'm Chiara Vargas. What's your name?"

The blonde ghost smiled and took my hand, though his went through mine. We stared at each other before we burst into a fit of laughter. Oh, how _stupid _of me; ghosts can't hold onto living or solid things.

Once our laughter died down, we smiled at each other. "Alfred F. Jones," the blonde ghost replied. "That's my name. Remember it! It's a hero's name."

I rolled my eyes. "Sure."

"Hey! It's true!" He pouted. "Oh, and if we're going to be friends, stop pouring holy water on me. It hurts, you know."

"One, we're not friends. We're acquaintances. Two, I make no promises."

He shrugged. "Oh well. Good enough."


	2. Chapter 2

"Hey! How are you feeling, man? I haven't seen you in over a week!" Alfred's overly loud voice scared the living daylights out of me; I spat out my orange juice.

"What the hell?" I growl, glaring nastily at him. "How did you get into my house?"

"Well, it's kind of a long story. I went to every house in the neighborhood, but I hadn't expected you lived here! The house is totally the opposite of you! Pastel pink and green striped house with flower gardens? Totally not your style."

"Well, it was my _mom _who decided the style of our house. Not me." I stood up slowly and winced as my splitting headache sharply increased. This much pain to grab a towel? I hate being sick.

"Anyways, what happened? You haven't been showing up in school the past week. Are you sick?"

"No shit, Sherlock." I cough into my arm, grabbing the light blue towel on the counter. "Anyways, I thought you were attached to the school. How the heck did you get here?"

"I'm not attached to the school." Alfred rolls his eyes, speaking in a tone that told me I should have noticed that tiny detail. "Sure, I died there but I never liked it. How would I get attached to it?"

"I don't know, spirits sometimes stick to where they've died." I walked back to the table and started wiping away the spat out orange juice. Sniffing, I add, "Or so I've heard."

"An obvious myth." He waved his hand dismissively. "I've been to many places aside that wretched school. But I don't know, I always end up getting there. There's something about the place of my death that draws me there."

Once I finish wiping the table clean, I toss the towel aside and sit back down. "Mm-hmm. How did you die anyways?"

He doesn't reply, which made me worried; had I plucked a string? Nervously, I glance at Alfred. He was still beside me, but his expression was solemn. In a cold, inhuman voice, he says, "That's none of your business."

"Oh," was all I could say. I slowly look down at my cup of orange juice. I could feel the blood rush to my face. Of course, how stupid of me. How could I ask such a sensitive question? I take a sip.

"A-Ah, I'm sorry!" Alfred floated in front of me, an apologetic look on his face. "Please don't look so down! I didn't mean to make you upset. Cheer up!"

"No, it's okay," I said. "I asked something I shouldn't have. I should be the one sorry."

Alfred pouted, obviously not satisfied with my reply. He pondered for a moment, placing a finger on his bottom lip. "Oh! I have an idea. How about I cook you something? Y'know, to make you feel better."

"Alfred, in all due respect, you're _dead._" I try to say this as nicely as possible, but knowing my mouth, the sentence sound sarcastic. Damn it.

"Just because I'm dead doesn't mean I can't do anything," Alfred sassily replied. "Besides, remember a few weeks ago when I saved you from the guy with the bad hair? That _proves _I could do something! Here let me try."

I watch as he floated over to the fridge. He stared at it for a second, hard, before the fridge door hastily flew open. I nearly choked on my drink. I hadn't expected that; I totally forgot about ghost and their weird telekinesis powers.

"What do people eat when they're sick?" he asked, shooting me a curious look.

I raise an eyebrow. "Haven't you ever been sick?"

"Nope."

". . . Fruits, toast, and soup."

"Okay!"

He pops his nonexistent knuckles and spins his index finger in a circle. Pasta noodles, broth, tomatoes, and carrots float out of the fridge. They settle down on the counter. A knife, loaf of bread, cutting board, and a pot join the pasta noodles and broth.

"I wish I could do that," I blurt out. When he shoots me a confused look, I say, "The telekinesis thing."

He smiles and goes onto chopping the carrots—well, using his telekinesis to anyways. "Perk of being a ghost."

I smile. I don't know why, but I just do. "Shut up."

. . .

The soup was pretty good, I have to admit. The carrots were soft and the tomatoes gave it a nice sour taste. Mixed with the toast, I was in heaven. For a few minutes, I forget my headache, my worn-out body, my running nose, and my sore throat. I'm caught in a blissful moment.

But when I finish, the happiness disappears and the pain-in-the-ass symptoms appear again. Though, I do feel slightly better.

"Thanks for the food," I say before getting up and placing my bowl and plate onto the sink. Mom will wash it later; I'm too sick to do anything right. I might break the fine china, after all.

"No problem! I'm glad you liked it." Alfred smiles happily, saluting. "Hey, what should we do next?"

I shrugged, but wince when my sore muscles protest. "We could go watch TV. Mortal Instruments is on."

"Mortal Instruments?" The blonde ghost tilted his head to the side, his eyebrows furrowed. "Is that some perverted show or something?"

"No. It's a movie," I reply. "Anyways, come on. We'll miss out the good parts if we just stand here."

I shove my hands into my pajama pockets, nonchalantly walking through Alfred. It was a chilly experience, like walking through a wall of ice in a snowstorm. But I liked the bone-tingling feeling it gave. I've always liked walking through ghosts.

"Hey, you walked through me!" Alfred whined.

"Never said I wouldn't," I hummed. "Anyways, follow! I don't want to miss out on the movie."

I could hear Alfred huff, but he followed anyways.

When we reached the couch, I flopped down on the heavenly cushion and grab the TV remote. Alfred looks particularly interested as I clicked the flat screen TV open. "We sure have advanced," commented Alfred. I shoot him a look. "Hey, I've been dead for over 50 years."

My eyes widen and I sit up, staring at him with doubtful eyes. Now that I look at him carefully, I could see the time difference: his hair was slicked to the side and his glasses looked old-fashioned. His polo and pants looked normal, but the logo on the front pocket said otherwise – it was of my school's old name, back before 21st century.

He raised his eyebrows, obviously amused of my reaction. "Dude, when I said I haven't talked to someone in decades, I meant it." His tone was smug and it made me want to punch him. But I was sick and he was dead, it was impossible.

"Whatever," was all I could say before turning my attention to the TV. I can't believe he died that long ago. He just looked so young, definitely far from a 70-year-old man. With his up-beat personality, it made it harder to find his true age.

Knowing all this, it made me want to find out about his death.


	3. Chapter 3

A few days later, I was up-and-ready to go. My cold had flown out the window, but a few of the symptoms remained. Like my throat was still slightly sore and my nose was still runny. But aside from that, I'm fine.

"Chiara!" Antonio, my annoying best friend, called. The fact that his Spanish accent had gotten thicker meant he was completely worried. He gently took my hand. "What happened? Why were you gone for so long? You haven't been answering my calls!"

"It's nothing big," I reply nonchalantly, waving my hand dismissively. "Just got sick. I was too tired to do anything, much less answer the phone. Sorry."

Antonio sighs in relief. "Oh, good. I thought that you got a really, really bad cold – like one depending on life and death! The way Alice described it. . ."

I shrug. "She overreacts a lot, don't trust her."

"Okay, understood!" Antonio brings out his bag, zipping it open and rummaging through it. Seriously, the guy needs to fix his bag; it's all messy and disorganized.

When he finds what he was looking for, he lets out a small sound of triumph. He fishes it out – a bunch of stapled papers, I noticed – and hands it over to me. "I copied the lectures down for you, Chiara."

"Oh, thank you." I replied lamely, accepting the papers. The handwriting was neat and fancy: Antonio's handwriting. "That's pretty thoughtful of you."

"Of course! I'm your best friend." Antonio puffs his chest proudly before his watch starts beeping. "Oh. The bell is going to ring soon, let's get going!"

"Huh? Oh, yeah."

He grabs my hand and we weave through the crowded hallway.

. . .

"Hey, Chiara, is that guy with the emerald eyes your boyfriend?"

I nearly snap my pencil in half. Turning my head sharply to Alfred, I start sputtering words in my native tongue. He seems a bit amused, raising his eyebrows in interest and his mouth curving into a smile. I hate it when he makes that face.

I slam my hands against my desk and stand up, bringing our eyes on the same level. "Never in my _whole life _will he become my boyfriend!"

"Ms. Vargas!" My teacher's sharp voice reminds me I'm still in English class. I flinch, slowly turning to meet the gaze of my enraged teacher. She was writing something on the board, but I was far too concentrated on her venomous stare. "What do you think you're doing, standing up _and _shouting in class?"

My muscles tense up. This is the second time I got in trouble because of Alfred. The last time, I was utterly embarrassed. And this time, I have a feeling that I will be embarrassed again.

"Sorry, Senorita Newman!" Antonio blurted out, darting up from his chair. He sat right next to me in English class. "I was asking Chiara whether Ivan was her boyfriend! They look muy lindo, no?" He smiles, extending his hands out. "I apologize if it disturbed your class!"

"Antonio," Ms. Newman said, her voice icy with anger. "How many times do I have to tell you that this is English class? Do not speak any Spanish. And for your disturbance, you will write fifty times: _I will not disrupt Mrs. Newman's class again._"

"Si—I mean, yes ma'am!" Antonio saluted and the whole class burst into laughter.

I could only stare at Antonio, gratefulness washing over me; I will have to thank him later – no, maybe I'll treat him to that café he likes. Yes, that sounds good. He seems to love their coffee.

Sitting back down, I start to calculate how much cups of coffee he'll possibly have.

. . .

"That was _so _heroic!" Alfred said, beaming. "Dude, can he be my sidekick? He'll totally make a great sidekick!"

"Alfred, can you not talk to me right now? We're in public; people might think I'm crazy." I shoot him a glare. I'm still pretty mad at him for getting Antonio into trouble. Well, sure, it's partly my fault, but it's mostly Alfred's! Still, I think he knows he's at fault since he hasn't come to talk to me the whole school day.

"Oh, yeah, sorry," he apologized, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. "Totally forgot the whole _you can only see me _thing."

"Hey, Chiara, who are you talking to?" Antonio inquired curiously. "You've been muttering to the air for ever since we left school."

"Nothing," I reply quickly. "Just talking to myself."

Antonio's eyebrows furrow in concern, but he decides to shoo the subject away.

Along the way in our trip to the café, I tried to make conversation. Antonio just seemed a little distracted, which meant complete silence. But as much as I wished for the guy to shut up for a second, it was uncomfortable and totally out of character. So, when I brought up the subject of a healthy pizza recipe, he seemed completely interested and was chattering like the idiot he was. I didn't let my relief show.

"Wow, I never knew that there was such a thing as healthy pizza," Antonio said in awe. "The pizzas that I've eaten are all greasy and cheesy!"

"American pizza satisfies the inner hunger of the beast inside you," I explained. "Italian pizza can satisfy your needs. Simple as that."

Antonio looked like he was going to say something, but something changed his mind. He extended out his hand and pointed at a softly painted building. "That's it! That's the café!"

I squinted my eyes to read the sign on the front: _Moonlit Jewel. _

"Quite a nice it has," I comment.

"That's because it looks like a jewel in the moonlight, silly." The Spanish transferee smiles as if it was obvious. "The paint shines in the moonlight, therefore giving it the illusion of a jewel."

I shrugged. "Okay. Still a weird name, but okay."

"That is _so _cool!" Alfred exclaims. He had been quiet until now. "Can we come here at night, Chiara? Can we? _Please_?"

"No," I reply flatly. "I'm busy at night."

We all enter through the front door, Antonio being the gentleman he is and holding the glass door for me. I nod in encouragement.

The inside of the café was the color of silver, indigo, and gold. The tables and chairs were covered in silver cloth with Celtic indigo or gold designs by the rims. People in many ages sat down, talking amongst themselves. Lulling piano music played, the notes delicate and soft.

I raise my eyebrows, surprised that this café didn't look like some dump. "This place isn't half bad."

Antonio smiles and walks ahead, urging me to follow him. I do, too tired from the walk to argue. As we walk pass the groups of peoples, I couldn't help but notice that most of the people in here were students from different schools doing homework or projects.

We stop by a table meant for two at the far corner, next to a square window that overlooked the street. "Because we totally need a view of vehicles tainting the air," I say sarcastically while settling myself down on a chair.

Antonio raises his eyebrows. "And we totally need your sarcasm."

"Touché."

We both smile and patiently wait for a waitress to come. Alfred, though, seemed quite impatient and was floating restlessly in the air. "Dude, the service here sucks."

"Shut up, Alfred." I huff, but then instantly regret it. I didn't whisper that, I said that _aloud. _I glance nervously at Antonio, who seemed a little confused.

"Who's Alfred?" he asks.

"My imaginary friend," I quickly say. "I could never quite get rid of him."

Antonio knits his eyebrows together, worry reflected in his eyes. I must seem like a lunatic to him. But the shrug told me he didn't care. Thank goodness.

A waitress arrives right at the spot. She's dressed in a silver and blue uniform. The nametag hanging from her apron said: _Clary. _Despite the fact she looked Asian, she spoke in a flawless American accent, "May I take your order?"

"Yes, I'll just have a coffee," Antonio replies.

The waitress looks at me and I shrug. "Same as him, I guess. But make it black coffee. "

"Oh, I'll have a cup of coffee too!" Alfred says, floating in front of the waitress. But she doesn't seem to notice him – oh, wait, of course. She never will; she doesn't have the sight.

"Is that all?" the waitress asked, smiling politely. "I recommend you try our croissants."

"One more coffee, then," I say. I shoot Alfred a look that told him he owed me, but he doesn't seem to notice. He was too focused on getting the waitress' attention.

The waitress nods. "Alright, you'll get your order shortly." She quietly turns and walks off, leaving a pissed Alfred.

"I wish everyone can see me, just like you," mutters Alfred as he floats next to me.

I raise my eyebrows, amused by the look of his pouty face. "I'm pretty sure they'll be panicking like crazy once they start seeing ghosts. I've seen enough to keep calm."

"Wait, so I'm not the first ghost you've seen?"

"Well, _duh. _I'm 17 years old! I've seen a lot before I've moved to America."

Before Alfred could say anymore, I swiped a hand through him. He rippled like water. "Now, shut up. I must look insane."

"I cannot be silenced!" Alfred shouted. "Never in my life will I—"

I give him my nastiest glare and that seemed to shut him up immediately. But he made his reluctance known by folding his arms and looking the other way. Finally, some silence.

"So, Chiara, is it natural for you to talk to your imaginary friend?"

Antonio's voice makes me jump; I forgot he was here. I cleared my throat and leaned against the chair. "Yes. Sorry if it's weird."

He shrugs. "It's not weird. You know what's weird? Arthur's eyebrows."

I snort. "That's not funny," I say, though it's half-hearted.

Antonio raises an eyebrow, his expression playful. "Then why did you laugh?"

"It's wasn't a laugh, it was a snort!"

"Same thing."

"It is _so _not."

"It _so _is."

We glare at each other, but then we couldn't hold it so we ended up laughing. I don't know but we just can't stay angry at each other. That's how best friends must be, then; it was the same with my best friend back at Italy. Now that I think about it, I sorta do miss Lovino and his badmouth.

"Anyways, I sort of glad you're still you, Chiara." Antonio said, his expression solemn. When I give him a look, he says, "I mean, I heard that you got in trouble in math class for talking. Just at English, you nearly got yourself in trouble. And now, you have an imaginary friend that you haven't told me about. I don't know, you just don't seem like the person who'll do any of those."

"I was half asleep when I talked during both English and math," I lied. "And I didn't want to tell you about my imaginary friend because you'll think it's weird."

"Wow, you're really good at lying," Alfred mused.

"Shut up," I whispered.

"Well," Antonio said, voice considerate, "I sort of do understand that, but remember this: I will never think you're weird. You're my best friend. I accept you for who you are."

I smiled despite the swelling guilt inside my stomach. "Thank you."

Just as our conversation came to an end, the waitress arrived with a tray of our coffee. She gingerly placed the mugs down on the table, excused herself, and walked off.

I slid Alfred's coffee in front of him and his expression lights up. He whoops and thanks me, grabbing the handle of the coffee mug. But then his hand goes right through it. I snort as he tries multiple times – all in vain, I tell you – to pick up the mug.

I picked up my mug, blowing gently onto the steaming black liquid. Then slowly, I take a sip. The bitter coffee burned my tongue that I nearly spat it out, but I swallowed it anyway.

I glance at Antonio, checking to see if he was bothered by his piping hot coffee, but it seemed like he was occupied. He was pouring liquid sugar into his coffee, but he looked so lost in thought that the mug overflowed with oversweet liquid.

"Um. . .," I say, waving my hand to get his attention.

That seemed to snap him out of it. He looks at me and blinks. "Yes?"

I pointed at the overflowing mug. He glanced at his mug and let out a little panic squeal, putting the container down and bringing out his handkerchief to wipe away the spilt liquid.

"Seriously, what's on your mind? It must be pretty good for you to space out while you're about to drink your coffee."

"Oh, it's nothing," replied Antonio. "Just thinking about that incident with the janitor's closet."

I raised an eyebrow. "The one that everyone thinks is haunted?"

He nodded. "You know, they say that the janitor door started opening and closing, then the lights started flickering, and finally the tools all came flying out. You were there, right? Is it real?"

I nodded. "I think it was just the wind and really bad light bulbs."

"Yeah, but I've been wondering. . . Could it have been the ghost of that kid who committed suicide?"

I nearly spit out the coffee in my mouth.

"What do you mean? I haven't heard of anyone committing suicide!"

"That's because only one kid did that and inside the school. He hung himself. But it isn't talked about much since he died a long, long time ago."

I glance at Alfred, who was too focused on trying to pick up the mug. Could it have been him?

"Do you know anything about the kid who died?"

"No. I just heard of him from Gilbert. He's been really into ghosts and stuff lately."

"I see. Thank you."

I lean back against my chair, staring at Alfred as I took another sip from my coffee. I wanted to ask him so badly whether he was that kid, but I knew he would only get angry at me. I shouldn't dig into his past, but. . .

It's just so tempting.


	4. Chapter 4

I was far too distracted to pay attention in class the next day. I kept thinking about Alfred. He was sweet and kind and always up-beat. There was no way someone like him would end his life. It just seemed impossible.

As much as I wanted to ask Gilbert about it, Alfred was always over my shoulder. He wouldn't leave me alone, even when I went into the bathroom. I knew I could always splash holy water at him, but he'd be suspicious on why I did that.

"Hey, Chiara, you okay? You just seem so distracted." Alfred's voice snapped me out of my thoughts. It was after school and I was waiting for my mom's car to arrive. Antonio was busy in a student council meeting so I was stuck with Alfred.

"Alfred, what do you think about suicide?" I asked. I slapped a hand over my mouth; I didn't mean to ask that. Is he angry? I slowly turn my head to him. He looked far from angry. Confused, maybe.

"I don't know. I think it's like running away. Suicide usually is driven by some problem. You don't want to face that problem so you just end your life so you never have to. It's a very cowardly way to die."

"Oh."

"Why do you ask, anyways?"

"Well. . . I don't know. I heard from Antonio someone committed suicide. I just don't understand why they do that so. . . I asked you."

It isn't exactly lying. Someone did commit suicide, but not in this timeframe.

"I see. Condolence, bro."

"Nah, it's okay. I never was close to him."

Just as I finished my sentence, the familiar honk of my mother's car horn caught my attention. She's here early.

"I need to go now," I said, getting up. "I'll see you later, Alfred."

"Alfred?" I nearly jump. That wasn't Alfred's voice, but. . .

"Hey, Gilbert." I try to say as calmly as I can. I had gotten used to talking to Alfred so much that I forgot he was dead. "What do you want?"

Gilbert laughs. It was an annoying hiss-like laugh that made me want to punch him. "Nothing, frau. It's just that you said the name of a dead boy I've read about not so long ago. Sorry if I disturbed you."

I was about to tell him it was okay, but then I paused. An idea had popped up into my brain. "Actually, there's another way you can apologize. Remember the math homework Mrs. Smith gave us? I really don't understand it. Call me at 7. Explain it to me, okay?"

I brought out my pen from my pocket and grabbed Gilbert's hand, scrawling my number on his arm. He kept sputtering stuff in German, but I paid it no mind. The guy probably doesn't get girls giving their numbers to him. This reaction must be natural.

My mom honks the horn impatiently. I shout, "Coming! Give me a sec, Ma!"

Then I pocket my pen, mouthing 'call me, okay?', and run off to my car.

This plan was risky, but the chances of success were high. I can only hope Alfred doesn't pop up in my room.

. . .

I spent my whole afternoon in my room, waiting for Gilbert's call. Every now and then, I'd do a little of my math homework. What? Thought I couldn't do it? Well, sorry to break it to you, but it was a lie.

At exactly 7:00, my phone began to hum the instrumental _Dollhouse _by Melanie-something. I never did bother to remember singers' names. I quickly picked up my phone and clicked the green button. "Gilbert?" I call, trying to contain my excitement. This is it. The plan is in action.

"Yeah, it's me," the voice at the other line said. "So, I searched up some explanations of complex fractions and—"

"Oh, yeah. About that. . . I lied. I totally knew everything."

"_What? _You're telling me I spent 2 hours searching for explanations and examples of complex fractions for _nothing_?"

"I'm sorry. I needed to say that because. . . someone was watching. And that someone would get mad if I asked you about what I really want."

There was a pause. "What are you saying?"

"Do you know Alfred? Alfred F. Jones?"

"Yeah."

"Well. . ." I took a deep breath. Should I tell him? This was the part I never really thought out. "I'm interested in his death." It wasn't I lie. It was true. I just didn't tell him why.

"Why would a perfect Italian babe want to know about a kid who died decades ago?"

"Just because!" I hissed, slamming a fist on my table. My books, pencil, and lamp shook. "Listen, are you willing to help me? I'm pretty sure you know a lot. Please, I really need your help."

There was a long silence. Then a tired sigh. "Okay, okay. The story is sorta long. Are you willing to stay a while on the phone?"

"I'm alright with it. I just need answers."

"Okay. Let me start with who Alfred is.

"Alfred was a young 17-year-old boy that went to our school. He had a younger brother, Mathew, and two loving parents. He lived an average life – not poor, not rich. He had enough food and a warm bed to sleep in.

"His death was very sudden and very strange. He didn't have problems in school (he was a prodigy, man!) and had a handful of good friends. Most say it's because of the pressure of staying on top of his class, others say it's because of bullying."

"Bullying?"

"You see, there were a bunch of kids who used to pick on him. But he didn't seem to care, judging from others' reports.

"Anyways, whatever the reason, he was found dead in the morning at the hallway of the 3rd floor. He was hung by a rope."

It took me a moment for this to sink in. This was Alfred's story. The cause of his death was suicide – the reason, unknown.

But it just didn't seem to make sense. He didn't seem to care about the bullying and he doesn't look like the kind of guy to stress over his grades. He's more of a laid back, cheerful, go-with-the-flow kind of guy.

"I see. Thanks for the information, Gilbert. I'll be sure to thank you with something tomorrow. See you."

I didn't wait for him to say goodbye. I just clicked the _End Call _button and placed my phone down.

"I thought you needed help on your math homework," said a voice. Oh no. Don't tell me it's. . .

"Alfred."

He looked pretty pissed. You don't know how Alfred is like when he's angry. He doesn't scrunch up his face or raise his voice. His expression is cold and blank; the mere sight of it sent shivers down my spine! And his voice was so icy that I was surprised it came out of his mouth.

"You lied to me." He stared down at me with those sharp blue eyes. "If you wanted to know about my death, then you could have asked."

I swallowed. My throat was so dry I nearly choked on my own saliva. "You wouldn't have told. . .," I said in a whisper.

"You're right." He narrowed his eyes. "But isn't it better than to lie to me? Do you know how betrayed I feel? I may not have a heart anymore, but the pain is still _here_!"

"Alfred, I'm sor—"

"_What? _You're sorry? Well, sorry doesn't cut it." Alfred smiled, a smile that held no humor. "You want to _know _how _I _died? Well? Answer me!"

I stayed quiet. He was in a sensitive state. I shouldn't say anything.

"Oh, you won't say anything? Fine, I'll tell you myself!"

"Alfred, you don't have to—" The glare shut me up immediately. Then, in a tone that dripped in venom, he said:

"I was _murdered._"


	5. Chapter 5

"But I thought—"

"That I committed suicide? Oh, _please. _Chiara, you should know yourself that I wouldn't do that." Alfred clicked his tongue. "Seriously, you die by a rope and they instantly think: 'suicide!' I wish the police were smarter then, maybe my death wouldn't have been put off."

It sounded like something he's been keeping to himself. I feel sort of sorry for him, despite being plain lost. He was murdered; he didn't end his own life. Who could have killed him? What was his or her motive?

I looked down to my feet. "I see. I'm sorry to hear that."

"Well, now you know. I hope you're _happy._"

And then he disappeared.

. . .

He was nowhere to be seen the next day. He didn't greet me by the entrance, he didn't bug me in classes, and he didn't hang out with me during lunch or after school. Even though Antonio was there to keep me company, I felt empty without Alfred. I missed him, as much as I hated to admit it.

"Hey, what's up?" Antonio asked as we walked to his favorite café. "I told you I was treating you, I thought you'd be happy at the least."

"I'm sorry," I muttered. "I think I lost someone special. He wouldn't talk to me the whole day and he was nowhere to be seen."

"Who is this person? I'll give him a stern talk."

"No, it's okay, Antonio. It was my fault. I made him angry."

"Well, don't beat yourself too much. I'm pretty sure he'll cool down."

Thank goodness for Antonio. He was so compassionate and understanding; it was nice to have a friend like him around.

"Thank you," I say.

Then suddenly, a familiar voice called, "Hey, guys! Wait up!"

We both stopped in our tracks and looked back, seeing Gilbert all red-faced as he tried to run toward us. He looked tired and his movements were all rigid. I almost felt sorry for him.

"What do you want, Gil?" Antonio inquired, smiling politely.

"The awesome me—" He pauses, inhaling as he came to a stop, "—wants to join with you guys."

"Don't you and Francis have a study date to attend?"

"Yeah, but the guy had a drama club meeting. Stupid." Gilbert snorted, but I could tell he wasn't amused by his sudden abandonment. "Besides, Chiara owed me a favor. She'll have to treat me to a cappuccino."

I groaned. I almost forgot about that. Actually, I tried to avoid thinking back to yesterday; it pained me greatly to even think about it.

I sighed dejectedly and took his hand. His face turned an even brighter shade of red. Do albinos get this flushed easily? Or am I just dense? "Alright, but only one. Come with us."

Antonio locks his hand with Gilbert. "Ay, amigo, you're always welcomed into our dates!"

I didn't really react much to the word 'date.' Antonio never sees our 'dates' as romantic, just friendship bonding. Sometimes, when I'm in a bad mood, I would get angry at him using it in front of people. They might get the wrong idea.

"Wait a minute, you guys are—"

"It's never romantic," I quickly say. "It's just us going out as friends."

"Oh. That means you're free?" Gilbert wiggles his eyes suggestively and I roll my eyes.

"Very funny. Oh, there it is."

The Moonlit Jewel was in view, looking as fancy as ever.

Gilbert snorts. "Are you serious? _Moonlit Jewel_?"

"I know, right!"

"Guys, can we _not _talking about the name. . ."

We both smile innocently at Antonio, who looks a little pissed off. But of course, like the forgiving person he is, he lets it pass and just continues on silently.

"Do you guys go often to the—er, um—Moonlit Jewel?" Gilbert asked, his eyes glued the strange café. He must still be processing how stupid the name is, despite the fact it sort of fit the building.

"Only Antonio," I reply. "He's obsessed with this place. He always goes here after school."

"Is their coffee that good?"

"Sorta. But I prefer my own coffee."

Antonio opens the door for both of us and we thank him as we enter. Leave it to him to be polite. I wonder if all Spanish guys were this nice.

We all sit at the table by the window. I expected Alfred to be sitting there, waiting for me. But of course, the seats were empty. There was no ghost boy sitting on them.

"I never expected the place to be this fancy," Gilbert mumbled. "Are all cafés like this?"

"Not really. I guess this is one devoted café." I grab a pack of sugar, tear it open, and pour the contents in my mouth. Sweet.

"Hello, welcome to Moonlit Jewel." A waitress with sandy blonde hair is patiently standing in front of our table. The name tag says _Madeline William Jones. _Jones? Isn't that. . ."May I take your order?"

"Oh! Madeline, I never knew you work here." Gilbert grins from ear to ear, leaning against the table. "How long have you been working here?"

"That's none of your business," huffs Madeline. Come to think of it, I think I've seen her somewhere. And judging from Gil's reaction, she must have attended our school. It's either that or she's some outside friend.

Gilbert laughs. "Right, right. I guess I'll just have a cappuccino."

"I'll have a coffee!"

"Black coffee for me."

Madeline nods and jots down our order. "Alright, you'll get your order shortly." She then excuses herself quietly, walking off to the counter.

"Hey, Chiara, remember Alfred?" Gilbert asks, speaking in a quiet voice. "Madeline is his brother's granddaughter."

"_What?_" I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Madeline was Alfred's great, great niece? Sure, they have the same last name but they look _nothing _like each other. Maybe the hair looked sort of the same, but—

"Pretty cool, right? She almost looks like her grandfather with the violet eyes and blonde, wavy hair."

"Does she know anything about Alfred?"

"I asked her once about him. She says he didn't commit suicide. Well, that's what her grandpa keeps insisting. Says it's hard not to believe since he always ends up crying."

So, there was someone else who knew that Alfred was murdered? If that was true, then why didn't he prove to the police that? Maybe then Alfred would have gotten a little justice.

I need to talk to Madeline.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Thank you for Cardfighter by Maple for always reviewing! Your reviews help me continue this story. _

"Hey, Madeline, right?" I ask, leaning against the counter. It was around 8 o'clock PM and I should probably be home, but here I am still in the Moonlit Jewel trying to spark up a conversation with Madeline. I wanted to talk to her as privately as possibly, but the café here was pretty popular and this is the latest I can stay outside.

Antonio went home already as much as he wanted to stay, but with his parents the kid had no chance. Gilbert, on the other hand, was waiting outside the café to drop me off. "It's dangerous at night," he says.

"Yes, that's my name. What do you need?" Madeline is cleaning the counter with a dirty old rag, not bothering to look up. Talk about friendly.

"Well, I'm going to cut to the chase. You're related to Alfred F. Jones, right?"

She stops wiping the counter and looks me in the eye. Her stare was hard and sharp. "How do you know?"

"I have my ways." I shrug. "Anyways, I want to know whether he was murdered or not."

"Why would you want to know?"

"I saw on the internet that he committed suicide. I was looking through old articles – it's my hobby. But you know, his death seemed a little strange. Why would he take his own life when he was doing alright? I think that"—I lowered my voice—"he was _murdered._"

Madeline just stares at me with those hard, sharp eyes. I try to keep a poker face. I won't show weakness. Not now, not ever.

Finally, she sighs and puts the rag away. "You're right. He was murdered. Well, that's what my grandpa seems to say. You know Ivan Braginsky? His grandma killed Alfred, or so my grandpa says. I don't know anything else."

I needed a moment to take this all in. That didn't seem right. If what Madeline says is true, Ivan's grandma killed Alfred. I've met her once before she died. She was a sweet old lady who didn't look like she would hurt a fly. It just didn't make sense.

But then again, killers aren't always obvious.

"Have you ever thought of consulting this with Ivan?" I asked, furrowing my eyebrows. I was still processing everything.

"Once or twice. When I was little, I thought about telling the police. But Grandpa Matthew told me it was no use. He tried that a long time ago and he had no evidence so the case was deemed close as 'suicide.'"

I stand up straight and run a hand through my hair. How am I supposed to give Alfred justice?

"Thank you for your time. I'll go now."

I turn my heel and walk out glumly to the night. Gilbert was outside, waiting for me. His face lit up when he saw me.

"How did it go with your talk?" he asks, leaning in close. "What did you talk about anyways?"

I sigh and mutter, "Well, it's nothing big. . ."

"Nothing big? You sure?"

"Why would you care? We don't even know each other much."

He gasps and puts a hand over his chest, feigning hurt. "Isn't it obvious? I don't want to miss a juicy story!"

I raised an eyebrow. "Is that why you waited for me? Talk about friendship."

He grins and pinches my cheek. "I was just kidding, frau. Relax."

"Gee, I'm so assured."

"You're a pretty sarcastic girl, huh?"

I shrug. "That's what people say."

He shakes his head and stuffs his hands in his pockets. "Alrighty! Let's get going. It's dark—Wait." Gilbert quickly looks back at the café and stares for a second before whooping. "No way! It really does look like a jewel!"

I glance at the café. Sure enough, it seemed to glimmer in the darkness; it looked absolutely beautiful.

So, Antonio wasn't lying when he said it looked like a jewel.

. . .

I'm on my bed, staring at my dirty ceiling. I still couldn't believe it was Ivan's grandma that killed Alfred. Does Ivan know about it? I just can't approach him and go, 'Oh, did you know your grandma killed my ghost friend?'

I groan and turn in my bed. What am I supposed to do now? I don't know. It's just so hard to bring someone, who has died 50 years ago, justice. The case has been close and for a long time, mind you. If they were still investigating, if the murderer was still alive, it would be easy.

"Alfred, you jerk. . . Why don't you give me a hand?"

Now, I'm not the kind of girl that cries at stuff like this—no, it's absolutely hard to make me cry! I grew up with seeing bloody souls wondering and the occasional snarky comments of my old school classmates (you scream, "White Lady!" once and everyone calls you the 'occult freak' for the rest of your life). So, there is no way a silly matter like this can break my stone heart.

Instead of being sad or upset, I am completely furious and downright enraged. It was just so hard to plan alone. If only I had someone to help me. . .

Wait. There is someone.

I take a quick look at the clock: half past nine. He should be awake at this hour. He doesn't seem like the type of guy to sleep early.

I get my cell phone, which was right beside me, and scroll through my latest calls. I don't have his number, but my cell probably has his call archived.

_There you are. _

I tap on the file and press the green call button.

_Riiiing, riiiiing, riiiing. . . _

"So, are you a stalker or something? How the hell did you get my number, frau?"

"Gilbert."

What? He was my last resort. He seemed like a pretty reliable guy. Yes, I know, there was always Antonio, but his parents were too strict. If he made one wrong move, he was dead meat. Poor guy.

"Seriously, it's like 9. . . I need my beauty sleep, you know!"

"You sound like a girl." I roll my eyes. "Anyways, I need your help."

There was a pause from the other line. "Really? You want help from the awesome me? You know, there's payment."

"Really? I never thought that friends paid each other for favors."

He laughs and says, "It's nothing big. I just want to go on a small friendly date with you. Nothing romantic; I just want to get to know you. Is that okay?"

I think about this for a moment. Huh, it didn't sound _that _bad. . . Gilbert is a pretty good guy and it wouldn't hurt to get to know him. "Okay," I respond.

"Wonderful! So, what do you need help in?"

"Oh, well. . . You see. . . I want to bring a certain someone justice."


End file.
